


Into the Sunset

by fhsa_archivist



Category: Fast and the Furious Series
Genre: Alternate Universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-06-24
Updated: 2004-06-24
Packaged: 2019-02-05 18:42:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12800067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fhsa_archivist/pseuds/fhsa_archivist
Summary: the last few quarter miles





	Into the Sunset

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Haven, the archivist: This story was originally archived at [Fandom Haven Story Archive (FHSA)](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Fandom_Haven_Story_Archive), was scheduled to shut down at the end of 2016. To preserve the archive, I began working with the OTW to transfer the stories to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2017. If you are this creator and the work hasn't transferred to your AO3 account, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Fandom Haven Story Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/fhsa/profile).

Echo Park

 

Adrenaline is like any drug...it wears off and the crash can be meteoric. When Dom pulled up under a jacaranda tree two blocks from his house, he gave himself a sixty count to stop shaking. The car idled; his conditioning not to damage a turbocharged engine still outweighed his growing pain and panic. 

 

The pain flooded through him as he pushed himself up and out of the low-slung car and trudged up the alley to the back of the house. The scent of garbage exacerbated the nausea that rose up in him at the smallest movement. He concentrated on the rhythm of his footsteps and when he stopped and huffed some deep breaths to keep from puking, the rhythm went on as throbbing pain. He focused on a mental catalogue of his injuries: Arm broken, for sure. Ribs cracked. Possible head injury. He spat out the welling saliva that threatened to choke him. 

 

The grit of the uneven asphalt crunched under his feet. Twenty minutes. Each step is a second. The scuffed whitewashed garages seemed like blank faces, watching his slow progress disdainfully. Six more steps and he thumbed the back gate open. The house before him was silent. He stopped for a second leaning on the back door. His hand pressed to the jamb as if he could feel the vibrations of the living people on the other side. But all was quiet and he spat again, and pushed into his former home. 

 

That it was his home no longer was clear in the first sight that met his eyes. On the kitchen counter three things drew his eye and turned his stomach. He imagined Mia moving through the house quickly, perhaps accompanied by EMTs or even the police, gathering these things unnoticed and leaving them for him to find. He felt that he could almost smell her faint perfume, feel her warmth, she had been here only a few minutes ago. Her presence of mind awed him even as the numbness spread through his chest. A photograph of them together that had been stuck on the 'fridge with a magnet. A baseball cap. A box full of black trash bags.

 

He closed his eyes for a moment then breathed deep ignoring the deep ache that clasped his lungs. Fifteen minutes. Mia, of all of them, would be okay. He'd think about everything later. He grabbed the box of plastic bags and clumped heavily down the steps to the cellar. His arm was stiffening, the pain growing steadily worse. He used the numb fingers of his left hand to steady the box while he ripped out two of the thick plastic bags. Awkwardly, using the tips of his fingers and his lips he managed to fluff the clingy plastic and lay it down in a circle on the floor. Then he did it all over again...he wasn't going to risk losing it now. He couldn't entirely suppress a short bark of pain as he stretched up to unscrew a section of one of the pipes that lined the ceiling. 

 

Unscrewing the pipe while confined to his right hand left him panting and sweating but he managed it without passing out. As he fisted out blocks of bills he gave thanks that money laundering was practically expected in his business. No one ever balked at paying in cash. It was the work of a moment to shuffle twenty stacks into the bag. Screwing the pipe back together went smoother. He dragged the edge of his fingernail across the multi-layered paint on the pipe, so Mia would know that he'd be taken care of. Bending over to collect the money and the bags narrowed his vision to a small point on the dirty floor. He dragged himself up slowly, careful not to jar himself against any corners or edges. It felt like he and his consciousness were engaged in an elaborate dance with lots of spins, turns and dips.

 

Eight minutes. With one step up the stairs to the second floor, he thought, I can get new clothes. With another step he thinks of the Aleve in the bathroom cabinet upstairs. With the third step, he thinks that he can hear sirens and should just leave now. With the fourth step, he thinks that there are always sirens in this neighborhood and he should just get a grip. With the fifth step, he dry heaves for 30 seconds. With the sixth step he thinks that he's more than halfway there already. At the top of the steps, he swayed dizzily. 

 

The bottle of Aleve was impossible to open one handed. Little things are tripping him up. He banged it once on the tile wall and then grayed out momentarily as the pain quaked through his body. He tucked the bottle top into the side of his mouth and then bit down. He crushed the bottle and it sliced into his gum. The sharp ripping pain was enough to clear his mind. His jaws crush the pills that made it into his mouth and his face twists with the bitterness. Suddenly, he could feel the sweat all over his body. He turned the tap and splashed water on his face, into his mouth. Five minutes. He left the tap running and limped to his room. 

 

Grabs random clothing, whatever is in the radius of his arm's reach. Enough to fill the trash bags the rest of the way and make a cursory search turn up nothing but laundry. Three minutes. A leather jacket from the closet, slung over his shoulder, hiding his busted arm. It's starting to swell and fill with bruise-blood. He fisted the bag, slung it over his good shoulder and thumped down the stairs. Have to stay alert, have to follow the breadcrumbs, not end up dead or in jail. Thirty seconds.

 

The photograph on the counter went into his pocket, the baseball cap went on his head. Sunglasses. If he can, later he'll rip the decals off the car. Now, the rhythm in his head is merciless, get out, get out, get OUT, getoutgetoutgetoutgetout. He makes it back down the alley and into the car without tripping, slides into the seat, still warm from the sun.

 

The baseball cap was Jesse's. Dimly he realizes that he's going to hurt much worse later.

 

 

Los Angeles

 

Dom drove straight down Western with no real destination in mind. The car glided along with a minimum of pressure to the accelerator and his right hand clamped over the wheel. He's hunched down so far that only his head is visible through the windows. He looks neither left nor right, concentrating on his breath in and out. It's the only thing keeping the pain at bay, bearable. The sun catches the skyscrapers to his left. 

 

Downtown Los Angeles has a multiple personality disorder. Up on the hill, the towers of finance sneer down at the tangle of the freeway. The sidewalks are clean and jaywalking is the big offense. On the other side of Broadway, things get seriously strange. The city turns into a hybrid of Hong Kong, Johannesburg and Tijuana. The fashion district, the diamond district, the flower market...suddenly everything is for sale and there are no blond heads to be found. The cacophony of languages, bright colors, strong smells make it a great place to hide. He glances up and suddenly he's got a destination in mind. The Emery Hotel, weekly rates.

 

He parks in a lot under a freeway overpass. The bright-eyed Hispanic boy that pops up to take his money stays silent as he struggles to jerk a few bucks from his pocket. Kid's probably seen much worse. He's suddenly very conscious of the blood stiffening the cotton of his shirt. He starts to walk and his body, lulled by the warmth and relative stillness of the car, screeches in protest. He refuses to limp, but he knows he's holding his upper body in an awkward posture. Hopefully, not enough to stand out in the constant freakshow that swirls through the streets down here. The car horns, a homeless guy yelling, Mexican music all surge together.

 

He makes it into the wide hall of the hotel that was probably pretty snazzy half a century ago. Now it has a dusty vinegary smell. Too much sweat for the wrong reasons. The reception desk has been enclosed in a steel and lucite cage, scratched to a cloudy sheen. The older black man behind the desk takes his bills without looking up from the tip sheet. He nudges over a key with the tips of his fingers, like Dom might have a curse that transfers on contact. Maybe he does. The elevator is hidden, if it ever existed but the stairs are wide and no one is on the landings to notice when he stops to breathe. Third floor.

 

He drops his bag in front of the door leans his head on it while he jimmies the lock free. His sweat leaves a gleaming stripe on the dusty wood as he drags himself inside. The room smells slightly of cedar shavings, giving the instant impression of a hamster's cage. He locks the door and pauses. He grabs at the vintage 70s desk chair and curses himself as he pushes it under the knob. He envisions the door splintering open under LAPD assault, the chair falling in matchsticks. But that's part of the script so he leaves it.

 

He shrugs his jacket onto the floor and then eases back onto the groaning mattress. When he's flat, his blood feels like it's sloshing from one end of his body to the other. The room spins drunkenly and he closes his eyes against it. The places on his chest where he last held Jesse's body start to tingle and burn. The red haze behind his eyelids darkens to gray and then to black.

 

 

4:17 AM

 

When he wakes up, he's blind. He can feel that his eyes are open, but the change from unconsciousness to consciousness is seamlessly black. He washes his right hand over his face and relief makes him dizzy as he brushes his sunglasses. He swipes them off like an oversized spider and sits up slowly. The room is dark, the window is dark, the street sounds have faded to a hum. A car alarm sounds but instinctively he knows that's not what has woken him. 

 

The tapping on his door is faint but as his ear isolates it, recognizes it, it grows to the volume of a bass drum. It jars his heart, it echoes through his body like an earthquake. Someone has found him. Not a bad someone. Or else a preternaturally polite cop bent on arresting Dom without waking the other patrons of this respectable establishment. Dom sneers at himself, at that idea. But his heart speeds up as he limps to the door. He pauses a second with his good hand pressed into the flimsy pasteboard. He feels the rhythm of the tapping. Bababa BAH ba. La CucaRAH cha.

 

He opens the door in a silent glide. The round brown face in front of him is suddenly split in a smile. "Homes, you look like shit."

 

Hector.

 

Dom drops his eyelids in disappointment and relief.

 

4:38 AM

 

It turns out that Hector has brought his first lieutenant, Luis and a very talented lady named Beatriz who is either his mother's second husband's sister or his father's sister-in-law's mother. She speaks no English but has instantly divined exactly where Dom is hurt worst. Abruptly she relieves him of his blood-soaked shirt with something that might have once been a scalpel. She seems satisfied to discover that he's not suffering from a sucking chest wound. Inside, Dom thinks in a flash, it's all inside. Hector and Luis fade into the background talking softly to one another while Beatriz runs a practiced hand over Dom's shoulder. She turns to the small case she has brought and pulls out a syringe with the air of someone who will be happy to get back to whatever she was doing before these messy injuries intervened. She swabs his shoulder with one smooth motion and plunges the needle down with the grace of a dancer. Only then does she brandish the injection at Dom, holding the syringe level for him to read. A painkiller. A muscle relaxant.

 

Dom appreciates Beatriz's stone-faced bedside manner almost as much as he appreciates her wealth of pharmaceuticals.

 

While the drugs slide tendrils into the pain of his arm, Beatriz coaxes him upright and into the doorway of the tiny bathroom. She spouts rapid-fire Spanish to Hector. Dom catches every fifth word. Hector grins and says, "She wants you to grab the doorframe, man." 

 

"What?" he hates feeling this sleepy and stupid.

 

"So she can tape up your ribs." And as soon as he complies, she does. Firmly and gently.

 

When that little ordeal is over, they sit him down and Hector and Luis get into the act. They act as counterweight while Beatriz pulls his arm across his chest and binds it into an L. Luis is very helpful, finding a scrap of hardened silicon in his pocket for Dom to bite down on. They let him lie down while they sponge the dried blood away from his forehead. Somewhere in the midst of all this he falls asleep again.

 

11:07 AM

 

When he comes to himself again, he is spared the initial, "Where am I?" awkwardness by the sight of Hector's goateed face reading La Opinion. 

 

"Hey, you feeling any better, cavron?" 

 

The sincere concern in Hector's voice make Dom's insides twist up immediately. 

 

"Yeah," he growls as he pulls himself upright. His whole body aches...reaction he knows to the system shock of seriously weird g-forces. But it's bearable.

 

"Take some of these. And eat some of this."

 

The these are little caplets that as far as he can make out are Tylenol with codeine. And the this is some melon that some entrepreneurial recent immigrant has sliced up and resold for a modest profit. He bites into a piece and it's like a waterfall on his tongue. He counts back and realizes that it's been over a day since he's eaten. This is a really good melon.

 

Hector gives him a funny look and he realizes he's spoken that thought aloud. Hector is immediately businesslike as if to stave off Dom falling apart right in front of him. 

 

 

"Hey, I brought you some stuff so you can shave, man. Why don't you go get cleaned up and we'll take some pictures, OK?"

 

Dom looks at Hector owlishly, he's come to some realizations but it's taking a lot longer than normal. What Hector's suggesting seems kind of ...odd. "Pictures?" he repeats stupidly.

 

"For your (studied cough) passport? For that trip south you're making?" Hector's eyebrows are eloquent.

 

The pieces are falling into place for him now. When he returns from the tiny bathroom, Hector is standing at the window surveying the street, master of his domain. Dom stops short as a question hits him.

 

"How did you know I was here?"

 

Hector turns and the sunlight turns his brown skin golden. Hector doesn't say anything just cocks his head and grins. In the clear light, Dom is struck by how bright and black his eyes are. He hasn't seen eyes like that since he...parked his car under a freeway underpass. Oh. And I used to think that I knew everybody. Hector can see him making the connections, Hector laughs but there's no malice in it.

 

"Up against the wall, big guy. We'll do this and I'll go get us some lunch." Hector quickly snaps some close shots of his face with a digital camera. And then rolls out the door as if he did this kind of thing every day. Maybe he does. 

 

Dom flops down onto the bed and wonders if he'll ever be surprised again.

 

1:47 PM

 

Hector returns with Luis, some delicious open-faced tacos in a Styrofoam box, lime Jarritos and a passport that clearly identifies Dom as Victor Dominguez, late of Sonora. The Dominguez, he appreciates. Nice of Hector to let him keep some small part of his name. But the Victor makes him snort with the irony. 

 

Luis cheerfully supplies him with his backstory. "Your wife's father has got a big farm down in Hermosillo and a big house on the lake. You take her down there to visit twice a year but this time you're alone because business held you up. You married her in 1997 (look, see that's the date on the passport). Her sister's getting married and your wife will be loco if you're late for the wedding. Say it with me, "Voy ha regrissar a la casa de me mujer..." 

 

"You really think they'll buy it?" Dom can barely inflect it as a question.

 

"I'd hole up here a few days, cavron," Hector volunteers thoughtfully. "The street's not that hot but whatever went down, they'll be looking borderwise the hardest for the first couple of days. And as to them buying it, man?" He chuckles and just stops himself from clapping Dom on the back. "North to south they don't even look you in the face. They save all their questions for the return trip. Luis is just covering all the bases."

 

He's always liked Hector. Hector has the strength to be playful. Hector can parody his own thug life, laugh at himself because he has the strength and the cred to spit in the face of those who would underestimate him. Hector's leadership seems to come so easy. Of course, Dom reflects, Hector is the most ambitious member of his team. Hector is content in the web of his extended family and they don't look for more than he can give them.

 

Dom sleeps for three days. The few hours that he's awake, unattended, he spends staring at the water stains and cracks on the ceiling. They bring him food and painkillers and wave away his offers of money. 

 

He wishes that the heavy weight on his chest was just his bandaged arm. The pain is slowly ebbing, replaced by numbness. 

 

Late morning on the fourth day, Hector leads him out under cover of what is becoming the noontime crush of people. They head back to the anonymous car lot and Dom isn't shocked to see no hint of the orange car. Hector took the keys from him the first morning and Dom kept all his protests unspoken. Hector leads him to the antithesis of the racer's ideal. American heavy metal, an old Plymouth with a racing stripe. The body is scuffed with patches of primer. It looks like it just got off of blocks after a good decade spent rotting.

 

"I'll look after your college girl." Hector had laughed and joked on the walk over but his face is wiped clean of humor now. 

 

"She doesn't need any looking after," He's gotten used to this little insight after 72 hours.

 

"I will all the same," Hector smiles. "You remember all those names Luis gave you? You've got my cell number. If you run into any women you can't handle, feel free to call."

 

"I got it," Dom's voice is dipping into a register that might not be audible. "You sure I can't even the balance a little here?"

 

Hector spares a shrug for Dom's cash. "Echa tu pan sobre las aguas; porque después de muchos días lo hallarás." 

 

Hector jerks the door open and Dom slides in. "Don't think I'm all noble and shit, homes," Hector's lip curls slightly. "You taking a vacation might mean that someone else in this town might actually win a race."

 

The smile feels strange on Dom's face, "I guess it might mean that. Does this fine automobile have any more to recommend itself than the roomy backseat?"

 

Hector waggles his eyebrows, "You don't smoke, do you?"

 

And that tells him all he needs to know really...he'll check out where Hector has hidden the Nos once he gets out of town.

 

And then the thought floats to the top of his head. Hector is walking away, dragging a pimp strut, but Dom doesn't have to raise his voice to get his attention. "Hector, who told you I'd be..." He trails off. Hector turns back and smiles.

 

"You know, man....your ghostface killa," Dom doesn't break his stare. "The snowman. Your mechanic. Brian."

 

And with that thought, Dom puts it in gear and gets the fuck out of Dodge.

 

 

Interstate 5 Southbound 

 

 

What am I doing? Dom thinks for the fifth or sixth time. 

 

 

Graffiti decorations 

Underneath a sky of dust 

A constant wave of tension 

On top of broken trust 

The lessons that you taught me 

I learn were never true 

Now I find myself in question 

They point the finger at me again 

Guilty by association 

You point the finger at me again 

 

 

But it wasn't a finger, Dom thinks. It was a gun. Dom stares unseeing at the blinking ruby sea of taillights ahead of him.

 

All my talk of taking action 

These words were never true 

Now I find myself in question 

 

 

If you want to leave 'em in the dust, you've got to be able to leave them in the dust. You've got to have it both ways to be good and stay sane. He knew from the beginning that it might end like this. That it would end like this.

 

 

I wanna run away 

Never say goodbye 

I wanna know the truth 

Instead of wondering why 

I wanna know the answers 

No more lies 

I wanna shut the door 

And open up my mind 

Gonna run away... 

 

 

He stabs angrily at the radio. Fucking Venice poseurs.

 

When they had first started jacking trucks, he'd sketched several contingency plans out. Part of the excitement for the others had been the risk of being scattered to the four winds. Dom had explained how they would defy the old adage about 'honor among thieves'. The secret is being able to walk away. Or in his case, run away. 

 

It's only four hours down to Mexico but the distance seems to stretch into his past and future, unending. There is no refuge because he can't outrun his thoughts.

 

He spares a few seconds to wish that he could have kept that car. Brian gave him that car. Twice.

 

 

Tijuana 

 

 

As Hector had predicted, the border crossing was painless. Dom wasn't sure if his fantasies of hordes of federales should be chalked up to egotistical paranoia or just all the movies he'd seen but he wasn't going to dwell on it. He was just grateful. Crawling through the dusty streets and the only people with eyes for him are the whores. He ducks into some of the chop shops on the outskirts of town. Buys some tools.

 

On an empty stretch of road south, he opens it up and then stabs the cigarette lighter just for laughs. There's a little hitch in the engine and then the Nos kicks in with a vengeance. The car shoots forward into darkness. He feels the pull against his eyeballs and the pressure of speed makes his ribs ache. He's grateful for the pain. 

 

It lets him know he's still alive.

 

 

Santa Teresa 

 

To someone bred on LA light, the darkness here seems infinite and somehow permanent. Up in the hills, the silence and darkness keep him awake late into the night.

 

He's starting to blend in. Santa Teresa's the country cousin of Echo Park. The people are friendly but they mind their own business. They bring in their cars and the men practice their English while the women look on with shy, liquid eyes. The big difference is that no one seems in a hurry to get their rusted trucks or overworked sedans back. The speed at which he's accustomed to working puzzles them but they smile anyway.

 

Dom opened his mouth to protest the first time that someone gave him a thirty-five pound bag of rice instead of cash. After a second's thought, he just shrugged. He was going to buy rice anyway. Eliminate the middleman, why not? 

 

Everyone is friendly and he has one friend, Juan, who may or may not be related to Hector. Juan laughs a lot like Hector and he appears to run the town on behalf of his aging father, the alcalde. Juan is the one who found him the small house, which he's either renting or buying. Dom tries to speak as little as possible and hope that others return the favor. If they say something he doesn't understand he just shrugs and waits. So far it has worked beautifully. 

 

No one here will ever challenge him. He's too big and crazy. No one talks to him without a reason. They seem to know he wants to be left alone.

 

That's why it surprises him when Carlo Guzman's wife speaks to him across the heads of her young sons as they climb into their tuned-up Honda. He just nods but he turns her words over in his head for days. He stares out into the dusk and darkness, down the hill to the surf and thinks, usted curará aquí. You will heal here.

 

He hopes she's right.

 

Ensenada 

 

Juan told him about the motorcycle race down 'in town' in a way that suggested his attendance was never in doubt. Dom wasn't really surprised or pissed off, naturally, he's the mechanic, he's the wacko gringo tooling around in the rumbling Plymouth. Of course, he's going to the race. There isn't much in the way of entertainment out here and people have a way of making the smallest event cause for celebration. Bike race. Sure. Break the monotony.

 

It's been eight weeks. His fractured arm has healed completely and he can breathe to the full range of his lungs again. Dom counts backwards sometimes in the long dusk. Eight weeks ago he was someone else. Eight weeks ago he had a family, a store, a garage, respect. And eight weeks before that, a door opened and closed, a man walked into the store, sat down at the counter and ordered a tuna sandwich. Eight weeks.

 

The race is a pathetic affair compared to the flash and sizzle that would mark such an event in Hell-A. In Los Angeles, no one is an amateur. 

 

Here they've got a couple of stands of bleachers, a roped-off oval of track, a radio station blasting tunes and a couple of guys selling beer. Everything you need, nothing you don't. Dom's appreciates their grasp of the fundamentals. He enjoys the anonymity too. Juan introduces him to a couple of guys who can sell him a lift, so the day promises to be profitable as well as diverting. The racecourse is smack up against the beach and the harbor, more sand than asphalt. Not for the faint-hearted.

 

The stands are filled with young men around his age, a few women and fewer tourists from the cruise ships, dotting the seats with hideously tacky colors. Race doesn't appear to have any particular schedule, bikes line up at random and blast off at the sound of the gun. Juan convinces him to pull the Plymouth up behind the stands and they lean on it with a perfect view of the starting line. 

 

Dom is happy to let the day just swirl around him. It's weird but the buzzing engines, the muffled roar of the crowd raise no answering chorus in his blood. This is the first time in living memory that he's watched any kind of race and not wanted to take part. He has a couple of beers and basks in the sun. Like a lizard, he moves only his eyes under cover of his sunglasses. Juan and his city friends cluster around. It appears they have to bet on every race. Dom is content to drink their beer and watch.

 

Late in the afternoon, he's almost dozing when something strikes him strange about the ragged line of dusty bikes gearing up for the next round. As his eyes run down the line he notices that one of the racers isn't scoping the course, but has turned to look straight at him. 

 

Dom feels his chest start to swell; his hands clench into fists involuntarily. Something menacing, oddly reptilian about that flat gaze through the dark visor of the helmet. He flashes back to Lance, twitching like a bug next to his bike. No more than he deserved but... A shard of ice pierces his numbness. Dom peels himself up from his sprawl against the hood and steps a few feet forward. Juan and his buddies feel his tension and fall silent. 

 

At that moment, the biker lifts one gloved hand and twitches up his visor. Just one second, one flash and Dom's swelling tension doesn't go away but it changes; his heart clenches in his chest. The race is starting. 

 

He turns back to the group, "Quiero apostar ahora." 

 

Juan looks where he's pointing and offers him 7 to 1. Dom snaps off two fifties and Juan raises his eyebrows, but he takes the money.

 

Suddenly, the sun has gotten brighter, the colors are sharper. Dom feels like he could see for miles. He can see every inch of the track despite the clouds of dust. He can follow the bikes through every turn, plane and angle, his gaze clings like a shadow. The volume around him starts to rise as it becomes apparent that Dom's long shot is coming in a winner. 

 

Paying Dom's winnings sucks up the posse's available cash and Juan's group disperses to where the drinks are cheaper, throwing Dom some odd looks. Dom tells Juan that he's going to be heading back soon, see you later. He's glad to be left alone. Eight fucking weeks. 

 

Footsteps trudging through the sand behind him. He turns around as the biker lifts off his helmet and runs his hand through his sweat-soaked hair.

 

It feels like Dom has forgotten how to speak. 

 

And then suddenly it comes to him, just what to say. He holds up the wad of crumpled bills that Juan gave him and growls, "Finally."

 

And Brian's smile is luminous in the golden light.

 

They stare at each other for a few long moments and the silence spreads around them until Dom shrugs and slides into his car and points northward.

 

And just like a puppy, Brian follows him home.

 

 

Santa Teresa

 

They don't really say anything that first evening. Dom keeps waiting for Brian to start talking when it's obvious that Brian's doing the same thing. Brian spends a long time just looking at everything. The house, the half-assed garage, the view down the hill to the distant beach. When Brian goes to speak, it looks like it costs him. 

 

"This all yours?" Brian asks.

Dom shrugs, "Some yuppie asshole defaulted on it. No one's tried to take it away from me."

 

Brian nods as if this makes perfect sense. "So where's...?" Brian lets the question hang as he rolls his hand in a circle.

 

Dom waits until Brian turns around again to face him. Dom tilts his head to the side and answers, "Indoor plumbing is not optional in my book. Only the shower is outside."

 

Brian relaxes at that. He almost smiles. "You got food?"

 

And Dom can't resist, "Mexican, OK?"

 

Brian face always goes blank when Dom starts to fuck with him, his eyes gleam but he answers completely deadpan, "Sure, I guess. Don't have to go all...exotic, just for little old me."

 

Dom makes some approximation of quesadillas and Brian eats like they do this every weekend. Brian washes the dishes while Dom pulls the garage shut. When they're done with everything they can do with their hands, they stare at each other. For some reason, it's not really uncomfortable. Dom doesn't start to tense up until Brian reaches into his jacket pocket. When he pulls out a deck of cards, Dom relaxes and throws himself down at the table. They both honor their unspoken agreement.

 

If no one speaks, no one can lie.

 

 

So the next morning, when Juan comes rolling in with a WWII vintage Mercedes truck loaded with a pneumatic lift, Dom decides to extend his policy of silence. Brian can damn well explain his own presence. But it's easier than that. Juan's perfectly content with his own assumptions. It's hard to get a word in edgewise anyway.

 

"That was a good race, Rubio. I never bet on a gringo before, but never say never. You'll let me know when you're racing again, si? You as good with the cars as Victor? Asombroso! Two months ago, cars break down, we have to tow them 100 km to Ensenada...now we have two mechanics. NAFTA is a wonderful thing, verdad?" 

Juan keeps it up non-stop until the lift is successfully installed. After Juan leaves, Brian raises his eyebrows and innocently asks, "Victor?"

 

Dom growls "Can it, Rubio."

 

Brian runs his hand through his hair ruefully, "Maybe I should have shaved my head."

 

Dom snorts and turns to the garage, "Yeah that would have been real inconspicuous."

 

You draw attention to yourself just by being alive, Brian. God knows, I've got to make myself look away.

 

 

Somehow not having spoken the first day, makes talking the following day even harder. Dom just leaves it alone. It feels like fragile glass balanced on the tips of his fingers. If he breaks the silence, everything will break. And he knows the words will weigh them down with sheer inevitability, so he lets it go. They'll talk when it's time.

 

Thus their conversations start the day mundane. They might not even speak until the sun gets settled in.

 

"That Chevy's manifold is shot."

 

"Intake or exhaust?"

 

"Exhaust. Weld's blown all to shit."

 

"Mmmmm. Juan might have a junker we can borrow from..."

 

Sometimes it feels like an extended game of 'Make the King Laugh'. Dom usually wins but not nearly always.

 

"What is this shit that we're listening to?"

 

"Hot Action Cop. I like it."

 

"A band called Hot Action Cop? Sounds like a porn film."

 

Brian is chewing on a rubber band and nods meditatively. "Think I've seen that porn film."

 

"Thought you were in that porn film." Dom leers.

 

"Nah, understudy."

 

And Dom can't help but chuckle. He finds himself laughing more and more. Brian has to turn his face away but Dom can still see how pleased he is with himself.

 

In the same way it gets harder and harder to talk about certain things, it gets easier and easier to laugh. But the tension is there all the time, like a train rattling tracks from miles away.

 

 

Dom can remember the moment it all started to change. They had finished late in the garage or maybe the days were getting shorter. They ate dinner inside the house for a change. Dom had finished and was sipping a beer, watching Brian shovel rice into his mouth. Brian glanced up at him and somehow grinned around his full mouth. Dom quickly flicked his eyes away and it was then that he noticed the scorpion. He got up casually and grabbed a shoe from the bedroom.

 

"What's up?"

Dom pointed, "Scorpion."

Brian seemed unfazed. "You're gonna kill it now?"

 

"I can see it now," Dom gritted out as the thing skittered over the wall and up to the ceiling. Dom grabbed his chair and climbed up for the kill.

 

"You're gonna fall," Brian said with certainty.

 

"Whatever." But maybe he would. The chair was rickety and trembling under his weight even now and then suddenly it...wasn't. Because Brian was holding it steady and as Dom stretched one hand out to kill the scorpion, his other hand stretched out for balance. And came to rest on Brian's head. Unthinkingly, Dom pushed his fingers through Brian's curly hair. The scorpion successfully dispatched, he looked down at Brian who had gone abruptly still. Dom slid his hand from Brian's head to his shoulder as he tried to climb casually down off the swaying chair. "Thanks."

 

Brian lifted his chin in acknowledgement and they didn't speak for the rest of the evening.

 

 

In a pause in the parade of beat-up jalopies that flowed through the garage, Brian leaned back on the lift and regarded the Plymouth until Dom was forced to notice. 

 

"You want I should leave you alone with it for a while?"

 

"You know, Dom," Brian was matter-of-fact "This is not your ten second car."

 

"Really?" Dom feigns surprise. "What tipped you off?" 

 

"Mmmmmm. The color, maybe." Brian licks his lower lip, trying to keep from laughing. "It's not really..." He draws a frame in the air around Dom with his fingers, "...you."

 

"What d'you mean it's not 'me'?" Dom replies. "This car is totally me."

 

Brian seems affronted, "This thing probably takes ten seconds to get into gear."

 

"This car is just like me." Dom beckons Brian over. "It's in disguise." He pops open the trunk.

 

"Whoa, that's....whoa."

 

"Yeah, I thought so. Running off at the mouth again without all the evidence." 

 

"That's enough nitrous to blast you to Panama."

 

"Not quite. To Puerto Vallarta maybe. The point of this car was to be street legal. No flash. No hydraulics, see? And they left the back seat in...but it could...overpower...the competition if they weren't too sophisticated."

 

Brian's nodding and thinking. He says slowly, "Side ports would make it faster and wouldn't be too obvious."

 

"Side ports, huh?" Dom keeps his face neutral.

 

But Brian knows that game, "Side ports, yup."

 

Dom strokes his lip with his fingernail as he pretends to think about it. He holds up one finger. "One rule: it's got to keep the secret identity. I don't want anyone looking at it and seeing a race car. It stays street legal."

 

"Fair enough," Brian's eyes gleam with mischief. "I love a challenge." 

 

It's something to do, something to talk about, something to stare at instead of each other. It's a Challenge. 

 

Brian's long fingers can reach things that Dom would have to disassemble to access. He keeps forgetting this until he's straining to unkink one of the jets and Brian comes up and nudges him aside. The press of Brian's forearm against his makes him look up into Brian's face. 

 

Even after Dom looks away, he still feels Brian's eyes on his. It's like the look was burned on his retina. While he refuses to think about what it might mean, it reminds him that he needs an acetylene torch. He finds one in Ensenada and they cut ports. 

 

Dom feels like something is creeping up on him. The train is careening out of control, going faster and faster and he can't get off.

 

 

Ironically, the explosion comes just because they deliver Oscar Hernandez' car on a Saturday.

 

Oscar insists that they don't have to come all the way out to his rancho, he'll be glad to meet them in the village square sometime in the afternoon. They need stuff anyway so they tool down in the golden light just before dusk. They park in the shadow of the crumbling old church. Brian waits with the cars while Dom buys a couple of cases of Pacifica and some fruit. Dom tucks the groceries into the backseat and then sits next to Brian on the low wall around the square. 

 

"What are they doing?" Brian raises his chin at the crowd of young people that fill the village green.

 

Dom snaps off a bottle-cap before responding in a grunt. "They're dating."

 

Brian blinks, "They're walking in circles."

 

Dom sighs and explains, "That's how they date. Boys walk clockwise in the outside circle. Girls walk counterclockwise in the inner circle. If a guy sees a girl he likes he offers her a flower. If she accepts the flower on three consecutive Saturdays, he can meet with her father and if her father approves, they can take a walk together sometimes."

 

Brian's eyebrows are comically high. "That's...really fucking Catholic, man."

 

"It works for them. Seems like you should know something about it, Mr. O'Connor."

 

Brian looks him full in the face then and grins. He responds in an exaggerated brogue, "Oh, I'd forgotten we were part of the same tribe, laddie. Give us some of the Eyetalian, Mr. Toretto." 

 

"Va fa'n culo," Dom says. "That Italian enough for you?" 

 

Brian throws back his head and cackles. Just then Oscar walks up for his car, smiling bemusedly at their laughter. He pays for his fan belt with two bottles of tequila.

 

The tequila looks like liquid gold and they can't resist breaking open a bottle before dinner. It's smooth enough to sip. 

 

By the time they've finished dinner, they're both starting to need to be consciously aware of where they put their feet and how they set their glasses down. Dom is beginning to feel that every glass he downs is just going to well up out of him again, as words this time. He starts to talk without looking at Brian. 

 

"You know back in the neighborhood, once there was a guy breaking into cars down on Franklin. I didn't know the kid, but some of the neighbors complained to me. Like I could somehow do something. Talk to him, find him a job or some such."

 

Brian's got his listening face on. For some reason, this makes Dom get up and start to pace.

 

"Anyway, John Law caught him at it down about three AM. They chased him on foot up our alley, woke me up enough to look out the window. They chased him into those little bungalows across the way and it was like magic. One radio call and two cops turn into six. Then suddenly eighteen. They've got the block cordoned off and a helicopter circling low with a searchlight. Within twenty minutes, three K9 units show up. They're yelling at him with megaphones. After the dogs pin him down, they tase him before they cuff him and they haul him off still unconscious. For breaking into cars."

 

"There a point to this story?" Brian's eyes are steady.

 

Dom stops pacing. "The point is this: LA cops are dogs, pit bulls. Their egos don't let them let go."

 

"Is that right?" Brian's voice is steady too.

 

"Yeah," Dom resists the urge to poke him in the chest. "In my experience it is."

 

Brian looks left and right, back and forth and up and down. He gets up, walks past Dom and says over his shoulder. "I don't see any cops around here, man. LAPD must have just given up on you."

 

Dom's so fucking tired of the uncertainty and Brian turning his back on him is the last straw. Two steps forward and he slams the heel of his hand into Brian's shoulder, pushing him around.

 

"What the fuck are you doing down here?" Dom snarls in his face. Brian tightens up but his eyes are snapping with anger, not fear.

 

"What are you doing down here? You waiting for something?" Brian's cool is starting to crack. "If you're waiting for Vince, you're going to wait a long time." He pauses and the muscle in his jaw twitches. "Like five to fifteen. You waiting for Jesse, you'll wait longer than that." His voice catches. "Depending on how healthy you are."

 

Dom wants to lash out, howl with frustration; the words are like nails in his skin. But he swallows it down and just focuses on Brian's bright eyes. It's better to know. 

 

Brian takes a few deep breaths then continues.

 

"Mia's in school. UCLA. But you knew that already. She sold everything, I think. Of course, I can't get within ten feet of her. She's not too pleased with me."

 

"With me either," Dom whispers.

 

Brian turns at that, like he forgot that Dom was in the room. "Letty and Leon..."

 

"I told you where they were."

 

A ghost of a smile slides across Brian's face. "I've looked, man, and I can't find Long Gone on a map. I don't know..."

 

"You haven't answered my question." Dom 

 

"Don't you care about this, Dom? Don't you care..." But Dom's got him by the neck of his shirt, pulled him in so Brian can't take a breath that Dom hasn't breathed first.

 

"Don't ever even think that," he grits out. "You can't come down here and lecture me, now why. Are you. Down here?"

 

Brian's eyes go hooded. He shudders and seems to deflate. "I'm here so you can beat the shit out of me. Get it out of your system. Move on."

 

Dom unclenches his fists and Brian stumbles back. "Now why would I want to do that?"

 

"Dunno, man. Closure?" Brian asks without looking at him and Dom could almost laugh if it didn't hurt so much.

 

"Closure is for shit, Brian. Don't patronize me. I've moved on, isn't it obvious?"

 

"But, why?" Brian seems helpless in the face of Dom's certainty. He gestures weakly around the yard. "Why?"

 

"Did you ever think that there are easier ways to steal?" Dom starts walking in a tight radius around Brian. "Easier ways to get cash than rocketing around a semi waiting to get your head blown off?"

 

Brian just waits for it.

 

"For them, for my 'team' being fast just wasn't enough. Jesse was happy just messing with engines, but Vince? Even Letty? They wanted to use their skills. They wanted the rush. So I gave it to them."

 

"What did you want?" 

 

The question brings Dom up short, "I...wanted them to be happy. They didn't want to go that last time. But I pushed it because I could feel that the net was closing and the only thing that would keep them happy was more danger. I just wanted to race. They just kept wanting more."

 

"And if more was your life, would you give it to them?"

 

Dom closes his eyes. "Yes, yes I would have. I'm just as bad, worse even, because I knew it would end with someone dying. I just thought it would be me."

 

"But it wasn't."

 

Dom eyes snap open, "No, it wasn't. And don't get all noble on me, coming down here like some kind of human sacrifice. You didn't give that trucker a shotgun, did you? If it wasn't you, it would have been someone else. I'm just surprised that they wanted to make a federal case out of it."

 

"I was surprised it was you." Brian mutters.

 

"No clue, really? Thought I was smarter than that?" Dom almost chokes out a laugh. "Well you fucked up royally then. I'm smarter now. Are you a cop?"

 

"Not anymore," Brian barely breathes.

 

"So maybe we all made some bad choices. And the wrong people always suffer for it. What were you planning on doing after I beat the shit out of you?"

 

Brian opens his mouth and then closes it. "Hadn't really gotten that far."

 

"So it puts a serious kink in the plan if I don't knock out your teeth?"

 

Brian shrugs but his eyes are lighter. "Yeah."

 

"Come over here then," Dom fists Brian's collar again and mimes a few punches. He pulls Brian closer and whispers in his ear, "I said I was smarter now. Vince was going to die. I think it's an even trade. You avenged Jesse. You think that I don't have anything now? You've got even less. We're even."

 

He pushes Brian away, stalks into the house and throws himself on the bed. He listens to the hesitant squeaking of the couch under Brian's weight. He falls asleep to the sound of Brian not sleeping, aware that it might be all he has left.

 

But in the morning Brian is still there. The routine picks up where it left off. Dom's surprised to realize that the rumbling tension is muted but it hasn't gone away completely. Something is still undone.

 

 

The car is slowly starting to take shape as a racing machine. They experiment, trying to keep all their modifications invisible with some comical results.

 

They adjust the jets. The first time Dom brake-torqued the motor and hit the gas pedal, the rear wheels hopped up like raindrops on a griddle. WWJD. What would Jesse do?

 

"It still has stock shocks and springs," Brian theorizes.

 

 

"And air shocks in the back..." Dom continues. "...and that ain't gonna cut it."

 

"We need to improve the weight transfer," Brian mused.

 

"What do you suggest?" Dom curled his lip to let Brian know that he wouldn't mind a joke right about now.

 

"Mmmmmmmm," Brian strokes his chin and snaps his fingers. "You could sit in the backseat?"

 

Dom fought the smile, "What are you trying to say, man?"

 

"Oh nothing," Brian continues nonchalantly, "Just that you could stand to lose a few-mpf!" 

 

Brian starts laughing when Dom tackles him. He goes suddenly limp and drops out of Dom's hold like a stone. Somersaulting backward on the cement floor, springing up and still laughing. Brian feints sideways as Dom lunges for him. "Think I struck a nerve. Feeling a bit...sensitive, are we?"

 

"You're gonna feel sensitive," Dom feints sideways himself, pushes forward on the backswing and pulls Brian into a full nelson and presses him up against the car. "I'm too heavy, huh?"

 

He feels Brian's ribs solid under his arm. Brian is solid everywhere, lean and hard.

Brian is still shaking with laughter, relaxed even though Dom's full weight is pressed against his back. Laughing as if he didn't have a care in the world. As if he can't think of anywhere he'd rather be. 

 

Dom lets go of him quickly and rocks back on his heels as Brian turns around. Brian stops whatever he was planning to say at the sight of Dom's face. Instead he says softly, "Let's get a bigger canister. I know the Nos doesn't weigh anything, but a bigger canister would be heavier and maybe we could cut down some front weight."

 

"If we're gonna do that, we're gonna need colder plugs," Dom's voice catches but he doesn't think it's noticeable. Brian just nods. 

 

Dom wrenches away and thinks about how to get cold plugs. How to get a colder head, while he's at it.

 

Mazatlan

 

They heard about the race at the exact moment they could no longer profitably work on the car. Juan came boiling up the hill talking so fast that Dom no longer heard English or Spanish but some completely new language. Dom and Brian don't have to do anything but nod along with him.

 

They come into Mazatlan two days early to get the car painted. Juan knows a guy who knows a guy and somewhere in all this chain of acquaintance is someone who'll be glad to turn the Plymouth bright red-orange with black racing stripes. The wide grille looks menacing, like a smile on a shark. The chrome sparkles like new-struck silver. 

 

"This wasn't really what I had in mind," Dom sighs when he sees the finished product.

"Nothing illegal about a paint job," Brian retorts cheerfully.

 

They're ready to race.

 

The track is outside of town in some dusty barrio that seems to be crowded with every person in Baja California. They get some strange looks as they pull up but cash money speaks volumes. They get a place to park and are spared the pre-race trash talk by pretending not to habla espanol.

 

As befits their higher entry fee, their race is the last one of the day. Brian's slowly tensing up and trying not to show it. His eyes are snapping with blue fire. Dom is relaxed, loose. 

 

"Dom, they're already staging up, better get over there if you're going to take her."

 

"Nah, don't think I will," Dom says and Brian boggles at him.

 

"Why not?" 

 

"Because I'm not taking her," Dom smiles and flips up his sunglasses. "You are."

 

Brian lifts his head up slowly, his eyes full of disbelief. "You sure that's a good idea?"

 

"Probably not a good idea for Victor Dominguez to be racing quite yet," Dom isn't quite whispering. "'Sides, I'm too heavy, remember?" He nudges Brian forward. The kid is too focused even to grin.

 

Brian slides into the Plymouth like he's dreaming. He glances back up at Dom, eyes still wide and childlike. 

 

"You're going to win," Dom murmurs. 

 

Brian nods slowly.

 

Despite the convection currents rising from the hot track, Dom can see Brian perfectly. 

The Plymouth juts out two or three feet back from the starting line. Dom can feel the sneers of the racers on either side of Brian and Dom wills him to look straight ahead. He's concentrating so hard that when the gun cracks, Dom doesn't even hear it. Brian does though and the orange car blasts forward with the smaller, more colorful cars swarming around it. 

 

Brian doesn't skimp on his shifting, allowing the maximum power to build. The tires want to leave their entire tread on the track as they've adjusted for every ounce of torque. Halfway into the longest ten seconds in his life, Dom feels his hope begin to flag as Brian starts to lag a few feet behind.

 

Dom's biting the inside of his lip. It's too heavy. The track isn't perfectly even and as Dom's eyes scan it he sees Brian hit a minor rut and it is at that moment that Brian shows his brilliance. It is just then, in that nanosecond of air, that Brian punches the deck. The Nos just explodes and the Plymouth rockets forward like it's taking off from Cape Canaveral. The airborne velocity slams it past the finish line leaving the others choking on dust. Brian's up and out of the car by the time the others pull up, his face oddly empty until he sees Dom. Dom hasn't seen him smile like that since he came in dead last.

 

And as he licks the dust off his teeth, Dom realizes that he's smiling too. Brian punches him in the chest and presses their foreheads together. They give Brian an envelope of his winnings which he hands to Dom without hesitating. They're walking away from the pats on the back and congratulations when Brian suggests, "Let's go back tonight."

 

Dom masks his surprise, "That's a long drive. Thought you'd want to party? Whores and booze and all?" 

 

"Nah," Brian curls his lip with disgust. "We can do that anytime. I just feel...conspicuous." 

 

Dom shrugs and they get on the road.

 

'Why didn't you shoot the Nos a second time?" 

 

"I shot it twice."

 

"I didn't see the first time and I was watching. Are you sure you didn't dream it?" 

 

"I hit it at the gate," Brian says it low, but audibly.

 

"You did what? Are you fucking nuts? You figured a little extra juice at the start was worth the risk of wearing the manifold like a steel plate in your head? You could have blown us all to hell! Are you.." Dom breaks off speechless with fury. He grips the steering wheel like he's about to break it off.

 

"They were a lot lighter than me. Getting off the gate was going to be the hard part. Yeah, it was a risk It was worth it," Brian is unrepentant. "Oh, like you never make the dramatic, suicidal gesture."

 

Dom's anger evaporates at this. Of course, it was worth it. Winning is winning. It was something he would have done. Five years ago, maybe. Who is he trying to kid?

 

"Don't do that again," Dom is firm. Brian nods happily and they both crack up.

 

The adrenaline lasts half of the long drive back. Driving through the pitch dark with all the stars, Dom feels some of his remaining numbness start to melt. When Dom looks over to see Brian slumped down asleep with his mouth half open, it comes to him. A little token of esteem.

 

Santa Teresa

 

Dom feels eyes on him the next morning while he's shaving. His skin starts tingling and he has to jerk the razor back before he nicks his scalp. He looks up to face Brian's reflection in the mirror. 

 

"Don't," he growls.

"Don't what?" Brian asks reasonably.

 

And since he can't answer, he snaps a towel at Brian and says curtly, "I've gotta go into town, you want anything?"

 

"I'll come along,"

 

"No, you stay here. The Guzmans might come by with their truck." 

 

Brian rolls his eyes but doesn't say anything. Dom's kind of glad that he gets to be such an asshole. It will make the surprise better.

 

When he pulls up that evening, he has a moment of panic in the quiet yard. What if Brian's gotten tired of his bullshit and left? 

 

"What the hell is that?" Brian is lounging in the doorframe, barefoot, drinking a beer. Dom feels a fierce rush of glee.

 

"This is your board," Dom gestures with a flourish.

 

"My board?" Brian points at himself with the bottle in his hand. He starts forward to admire it. His eyes are unreadable.

 

"Money is a crappy trophy," Dom says philosophically. "Makes winning seem like a job. That win deserved something special."

 

Brian runs his hand over the glossy fiberglass. He presses his lips together and looks like he's trying to play it cool. "This is certainly special."

 

"Is it worth a damn? I don't know shit about surfboards." Dom's voice is gruff but he thinks the point is coming across.

 

"Yeah, it's great..." Brian pulls his eyes from the board and looks straight at Dom. "Echo Park is twelve miles from the bay of LA."

 

"Okay, South Bay. Could've been twelve hundred." Dom shrugs. "Beach wasn't something we did."

 

"Is it something you do now?" Brian asks.

 

Dom nods slowly, "Wouldn't miss it for the world." 

 

Playa de la Fuente

 

The nicest thing about the Plymouth is its size. They can fit the surfboard in balanced across the back windows. It makes the Plymouth look like a shark that's got a fish clamped in its jaws. As they rumble down the dirt road to the beach, Brian reaches out and snaps a flower from one of the overgrown bushes. He holds it so that Dom can smell it and then throws it onto the dashboard. When they get to the beach, Dom sits for a few moments in the car, twirling the flower in his hands while Brian wrestles his longboard out of the backseat.

 

The wool blankets that the Gonzalez family gave them for fixing the Toyota are perfect for beach time. Brian wanted to catch the early tide, so the beach is deserted except for the crabs and gulls.

 

"Is it always like this?" Brian kicks at the sand to make it squeak.

 

"I've never been down here. Curve of the bay gives it a little too much surf for the locals."

 

"S'nice," Brian turns his face up to the palisade of cliffs, looking for signs of life. "Private."

 

For some reason, this brings unexpected heat to Dom's face which he covers by making an overlapping pile of blankets. Brian strips off down to his shorts. 

 

"What's that for?" Dom points at the mysterious Velcro strap to cover his embarrassment.

 

Brian looks down at his ankle, "So I don't lose it if I crack up."

 

Dom nods and Brian lopes down to the water.

 

Dom drinks and dozes and soaks it up while Brian feathers around the surf, waiting for a wave. Dom feels the breakers lulling him. This is it. This is what I wanted. I thought what I needed was to win when what I really needed to do was lose.

 

Brian yells something incoherent. Dom stands up to look. Brian has caught a wave, gliding effortlessly. Brian's mouth is tensed, his body curved in an arc of perfect balance. He spares a glance at Dom and smiles. In the space of a few seconds the ocean seems to decide it's had enough and rips the board away. Wipeout. Brian flips off and goes down in the foaming maw of water. Dom laughs because Brian looked so surprised.

 

And suddenly all he can see is the fucking board bobbing like a tombstone, like something is trying to pull it down. Before his brain has caught up he's in the water, just running, running. And sure, maybe he's not the best swimmer, but he can see where he needs to be and the water had just better get the hell out of the way. He pushes himself through the waves fiercely, each stroke dragging him forward. The board doesn't seem to be getting any closer and each yard gained is another breath that Brian isn't taking. This can't be happening.

 

When he reaches the board, he realizes that he has no idea what he's doing. Brian is wet and heavy and slippery. Dom finally has to drag him up by his hair. He can't get any leverage and the board bobs around trying to stab at him with its pointed end. He finally manages to push Brian halfway up onto the board and start kicking them back to shore. Brian is pale and Dom can't stop moving for long enough to see if he's breathing.

 

Brian is held up by the water but so boneless and limp. Just like Jesse. His mind screams at that thought and he squeezes Brian as the current pulls at them. Brian's so still. Dom's flailing slowly forward and then his feet find purchase on the sand. The water churns around them as Dom stumbles forward, the waves trying to knock him off his feet. He heaves Brian's body up and discovers that it's easier to walk backwards with his arms wrapped around Brian's chest, his face pressed into Brian's hair. Dom backs up with shaky steps and Brian floats but gets heavier and heavier as the water recedes. Dom is almost out of the surf when he steps on a piece of kelp and his heel slides right out from under him. He goes tumbling back onto his ass with his arms still locked around Brian. 

 

And suddenly Brian is choking and gasping on top of him, the force of the impact pushing air back into his lungs. Dom rolls him flat onto the sand and pushes Brian's wet hair off his forehead, smearing the trail of vivid red blood off Brian's temple. Brian's panting, heaving breath is the best thing he's ever heard. Brian's eyelashes are dark and wet against his cheek until his eyes flutter open and he stares at Dom as if he's never seen him before. Dom keeps smoothing his hair back while Brian's breath returns to normal. And just as Dom is about to pull away, Brian opens his mouth and gasps.

 

"That's not what I had in mind."

 

And Dom sobs out his next breath because it's just not fair, Brian's always so fucking brave and it's not right that Dom shouldn't meet him halfway. Dom stops thinking about everything and just presses his lips to Brian's. 

 

And after one shocked second, Brian presses right back.

 

On either side of Brian's shoulders, Dom's hands dig into the sand because the world just began spinning twice as fast and Dom's afraid he'll be flung off into the atmosphere. Not mouth to mouth resuscitation, he's not giving Brian any air, just fire. Brian is cold and his mouth tastes of nothing but salt but he sucks at Dom's lips hungrily. Dom has to fight the urge to squeeze Brian painfully tight. He loses the fight and buries his face in Brian's neck while Brian murmurs, "I'm all right," over and over again. 

 

Suddenly, Dom realizes that the cold water is still lapping around their feet. They are powdered with an uncomfortable layer of sand and Brian is still bleeding pretty freely. Trying to stand up and haul Brian to his feet gets them tangled into a vertical embrace and it's still real, it's still happening. Dom appreciates the novelty of kissing someone who's maybe even a little taller than he is. They kiss until they are both breathless and then start urging each other to the car. Brian appears to have forgotten all about his surfboard in favor of tonguing Dom's ear.

 

Somehow they make it to the car, pausing every few moments so Brian can 'catch his breath'. Dom keeps one arm wrapped around Brian's waist even when he's opening the car and tossing the blankets in the backseat. Brian crawls into the backseat himself, turns around and pulls Dom in before he can resist. Dom lands in an awkward sprawl, half into the footwells, half on top of Brian. And Dom understands, this has got to happen fast, fast, before they realize that it's crazy.

 

"You're bleeding," Dom rasps while he peels off Brian's wet shorts. He notices that Brian is struggling with his own salt-stiffened pants. 

 

"I don't care," Brian shoots back before ripping the sticky zipper back down to the inseam. He rocks up off the roomy backseat and starts sucking on Dom's collarbone. And his mouth is hard, his mouth is strong and Dom feels all his senses slowly deserting him except for the feeling of Brian's mouth on his skin. Dom is trying to find a place to put his hand for balance and ends up gripping Brian's hip while his other fingers explore. The heat is coming back to Brian's body. His face is flushed and his mouth is already dark with kisses. Dom curls his arm around Brian's neck and pulls his mouth free so he can get some space, some room to maneuver. Dom runs his hand from Brian's mouth down his chest to his stomach and further, watching his face intently. Brian's eyes flutter closed as Dom grips him tightly. Then after a few short strokes, Brian's eyes blaze open again blue fire and he surges up off the seat and crushes his mouth against Dom's. He's all tongue and teeth and Dom is even momentarily distracted enough to offer no resistance when Brian starts sliding his own hand around. But when Brian curls his fist around his cock, Dom straightens up so fast that he whacks the back of his head on the roof of the car. That sends him straight back into Brian's arms, flailing about on Brian's lean body and they're both laughing and gasping and pretty soon, coming.

 

When they come back from this strange new planet they've been visiting, the silence comes back, but it's changed. Dom's trying to figure it out. Something is missing. He slides into the driver's seat and Brian slides in beside him and it's weird. It doesn't seem right that it should be like this; this is almost too easy. Here they are sitting in a car nearly naked, having just come all over one another. Despite the terror and the blood and the near-death experience. Which is par for the course, really.

 

Everything is touching Dom, he's been numb for so long but now sensation is coming back with a vengeance. The hot leather of the car seat, the light hair on Brian's thigh, the hot breath of wind. He drives furiously staring straight ahead, the one glance he spared for Brian nearly killed them both.

 

When they get back to the house, they sit in the car for a moment looking straight ahead. 

 

Brian's been pressing a corner of one of the blankets to the lump on his head. The bleeding has stopped but it's getting kind of swollen. When Dom leans in to look at it Brian knocks his hand away, bares all of his teeth and bites Dom's lower lip. Dom backs off and lets Brian maul him. He's getting the message: the kid ain't fragile.

 

They pull themselves out of the car and with one accord make a beeline to the outdoor shower. The water is as cold as the ocean they've just left, it feels great to just stand and let the burning stickiness wash away. It feels even better to press together, to run his hand down the curve of Brian's spine to where the tanned skin fades to pale. Brian shivers and sways under the cool water. He jerks Dom under the full force of the spray until Dom has to press his eyes and mouth closed against the onslaught. The water runs over him meeting no resistance except for Brian's fingers rubbing the base of his skull, pulling gently at the bud of his nipple. Brian is easier to get a grip on, still smooth-hard like Dom, but with light hair on his body that dries to feather-softness. He tries to kiss Brian underneath the water and almost chokes which makes Brian laugh and pull him inside.

 

The full press of Brian's body against his is almost too much to bear. Dom's never been with someone who pushes back when he pushes forward, it's like being buoyed up by water after being surrounded only by air. He has to use more than a fraction of his strength to get the kid to stay still and then he reconsiders and lets Brian roll him over on the complaining bed. Brian runs his tongue over Dom's navel stud and Dom shudders so hard they almost lurch off the bed. The press of flesh is making him slightly crazy, like a fistfight only much better.

 

And suddenly Brian is gone and Dom opens his eyes and punches the pillow, blood rushing around every which way, heart pounding, head heavy with lust and where the fuck is Brian? And suddenly he's back and Dom jerks him back onto the bed without regard for the screeching springs. Long minutes go by as Dom strokes and bites skin to his heart's content and then Dom suddenly raises his head and looks at what Brian has clutched in his outflung hand. And then freezes because Brian has upped the ante quite a bit.

 

This is like one of their typical wrestling matches but Brian just pulled a killer unexpected hold that Dom's never seen before. Brian smiles as Dom turns up to his face. Brian gets up onto his knees, spreads the oil on two of his own fingers and presses back to prepare himself. Dom has to shut his eyes and viciously squeeze his own cock in the face of this. It's just too real, too hot. Blindly, he reaches out and clutches Brian's biceps, taut under his hands. He bites the long muscle over Brian's collarbone and runs his tongue down Brian's chest, over his nipples and then starts clumsily mouthing his cock. 

 

The sounds that Brian is making are beyond pornographic and moving into obscene. He pulls back onto his side and jerks Dom back with him. Brian is heaving his hips upward, shoving backwards, not taking no for an answer until the head of Dom's cock rests right at the make or break point. Dom clutches at Brian's ribs with stiff fingers. Brian pulls at Dom's cock and tries to urge him forward slowly and smoothly. Dom braces one hand on the bed and the other on Brian's shoulder.

 

"I'm not going to hurt you," Dom gasps.

 

"I wouldn't let you," Brian's eyes are as clear as the sky. He reaches for Dom with sure strong hands. And it's like something is breaking inside Dom, the train has whipped past him but he's still getting blindsided. When he pushes inside Brian, he has to close his burning eyes. Brian twists his strong body, his fingers hard on Dom's thighs and when Dom opens his eyes again, he's all the way in. He starts to shake. Brian clenches his teeth and pushes back hard. Dom starts thrusting once Brian sets the rhythm. He squeezes Brian's cock roughly and Brian trembles under his hands. Brian's panting like he's run a marathon and pretty soon, Dom can barely breathe either. Joy is gripping the base of his spine and boils up in him fierce and unstoppable. He comes, shouting, with one look into Brian's bright, hot eyes.

 

He pulls Brian around to face him as the last of the shudders wrack his body. Brian is already almost asleep. 

 

When they wake up again, the room is in darkness. The air presses softly in from all sides. The mosquito netting around the windows sways gently.

 

"Eat something," Dom says thickly. Brian grunts something that sounds like 'great idea' and pulls on a pair of Dom's jeans with barely a hitch. Which Dom considers is a probably a good thing.

 

They eat in silence unbroken until Brian gets sick of Dom's heavy regard and asks him politely, just what the fuck he thought he was staring at?

 

Dom clears his throat and says, "It just occurred to me that I know even less about you than I thought. Which is okay, 'cause I certainly know less about me than I thought. But I'd like to know more."

 

Brian raises his eyebrows and starts, "The details of my life are quite inconsequential..." And when they've stopped laughing, he continues. "Best undercover gigs always have a bit of truth to them. Everything Jesse got off the internet was true...I didn't have much ...supervision...and so I stole a few cars as a kid and went down for it. The record just didn't talk about the police mentoring program, my time at the academy, my stellar scores on the detectives' exam..."

 

"Your skill, your daring, your humility. So was ours your first assignment? You ever work Vice or anything like that?"

 

"Is this your nice way of asking me how much cock I've had?" Brian's tone is hard, but his eyes are smiling. 

 

Dom flicks his fingers dismissively, "Take it as you will."

 

Brian's eyes are steady, "First assignment. Take it as you will."

 

Dom half turns away to hide his face. "So you going to miss it? Kinda put a dent in your career prospects in law enforcement...but it strikes me as it wasn't really your best bet in the first place." When he turns back Brian is shaking his head.

 

"I couldn't go back anyway. They fucked me much harder than you just did...uh...not literally." Brian ducks his head and laughs.

 

"Good...I think," Dom growls.

 

"So what else is on your mind?" 

 

At that point, Dom breaks tradition and says what he's really thinking: he can see the edges of the red welts that his fingers left on Brian's ribs and it's starting to turn him on. And that ends the conversation until much, much later when they're drifting off to sleep.

 

"When did you know?" Dom asks softly. He can trust Brian to fill in the blanks of the question.

 

Brian yawns and stretches before he responds. "Dude, the used (and probably hot) longboard is like the international symbol for romance."

 

Dom whacks him gently on the back of the head, "You are such a fuckin' smartass. Really. This is a bona fide question."

 

Brian actually opens his eyes at the tone in Dom's voice. "Well...then....when you told Tran that you hadn't taken delivery."

 

"That makes absolutely no sense," Dom says after thinking about it for long seconds. The memory was indelible, but not for the reasons that Brian thought. "Are you high?"

 

"Nah, man, see it's like this," Brian rolled over onto his stomach. "You know what kind of destructive motherfucker Tran is. You know he's gonna torch the car, whether it belongs to you or me or the mayor of LA. So you tell him that you haven't taken delivery. Which leaves me in your debt, when it goes up like fireworks. So you obviously liked the idea of me hanging around."

 

By this time Dom is chuckling. "All right, it's a reach, but we'll say it went down like that."

 

"When did you know? I get to ask, see, because you asked." 

 

Dom raises his eyebrows, "That's how it works, huh?" Brian nods vigorously and slumps in the hollow of Dom's side.

 

Dom stays silent for long moments and he thinks that Brian has fallen back asleep until Brian bites down gently on the muscles in his neck. Then he says softly, "The first race when you lost. You didn't even seem to notice." For the thousandth time, Dom thinks, dude, I almost had you.

 

Brian's arm tightens around Dom's chest. "I won this time."

 

And Dom whispers, "We both did."

 

 

End


End file.
